It was clear his questions overwhelmed the boy; it didn't take much for Pripyat to withdraw away from him, though Jefferson knew there was no animosity between them. The scarred man knelt down on a knee as his son stammered through a messy response, the brute's eye weary and exhausted as if he himself could curl up beside the boy and sleep for days as well. When Pripyat finished, fear filled his boy's eyes, and the father gently leaned over him, wrapping his arms around the child's neck, and held tight a long moment. He was not one to embrace, and perhaps it was the utter exhaustion playing at his defenses, but at that moment Jefferson needed to verify his son was safe, and he held on as long as it took for the boy to stop shaking from the freezing temperature.
With a sigh, he eventually released and stood, once more shaking his fur of the excess moisture. "Your mother will turn up," he muttered, wandering across the room and over the threshold into the next. Returned moments later, axe in hand, and stood in the doorway staring somewhat hopelessly at the front door from whence he came. "It's fucking freezing in here," he grumbled, then shuffled across the floor. "There's a fireplace in the next room. Stay here, stay bundled up. I'll go cut some firewood real quick and we'll stay the night here, all right?"
He paused at the door, staring at its knob, thinning his eye... then turned, smiling feebly at the boy. "I'm not mad at you, Pripyat. I was just scared you were hurt somehow."
And at that second the roof creaked once more, a startling groan; Jefferson's eye shot to the wooden ceiling over their heads, his brows furrowing as he considered the noise worriedly, it creaking on and on incessantly this time. His eye lowered next to Pripyat, dawning concern in his bleaching face, and then it was too late — with a horrific, rebounding snap, the cabin snarled at them and broke at its edges, wooden beams and splinters breaking his vision, interrupting the image of his son before his eye. The wind screamed beside them, pushing at the walls, the ceiling, the ground; and still the weak cabin walls and ceiling fell, all at once, collapsing in on them. Hadn't they known they were falling on the pack's leader, the stronghold of Phoenix Valley? Hadn't they known they were threatening the life of the only son he's come to love?
He screamed the boy's name when the sound began, and in seconds black and white destroyed his vision, in his eyes and in his mind. It collapsed on his shoulders, his back, his head; like heavy mounds they fell upon him and held him down in a deadly pin, and unconsciousness swallowed him whole.
He flickered between it and consciousness for some time, his vision only white and red, the sound only the whistle of wind that blew, somehow, between all atop him and still into his coat. He knew he was alive. I am Jefferson. He was cold. Maluki. Jefferson. Leader of Phoenix Valley. No... I can still remember. That was all he knew, for some time. Something dripped between his eyes, clogged his nose. Blood? Snow? His heart droned on, weak, tired. Tired of beating with the efforts of a young man's body. He was old. He was old. He was too old to survive this.
No, he couldn't be too old. Pripyat. Pripyat? "Prrrpph," he screamed, or thought he screamed, but all he heard was whispers. Again. "Prrrrrpph." Why couldn't he speak? His son was over there, not far away. Was he all right? Oh God, was he all right? Jefferson tried to move, but something shifted heavier atop him. He hissed, then held his breath and pushed at it once more. Something atop slid off. He then began kicking with his feet, twisting his spine, pushing with his skill, and things tumbled off one by one. His good arm felt tense, yet numb. Stuck, maybe? He couldn't tell. Still the man flickered in consciousness and unconsciousness, mumbling as loud as he could, his mind screaming the little Soul's name, but his voice unwilling to do the same.
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